


between you and the shapes you take, when the crust of shape has been destroyed.

by belacquas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, ASoIF, game of thrones
Genre: Alternate Universe: His Dark Materials, Daemons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:40:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belacquas/pseuds/belacquas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>summary: a re-write of sansa's story arc, mostly from her pov, exploring how things would have gone if she had a daemon. i have defended this character to so many people, but i still have the desire to give her agency beyond what she is allowed in the text - she has all this inner strength that she doesn't recognize for so long, and i think things would have gone differently for her if she had someone she could talk to and trust completely. plus, also, daemons! </p><p>warning: some sections are from joffrey's pov, because even though he's an evil little shit i wanted to give him some voice outside his ridiculously sadistic actions, and lbr, it would have been awful having robert for a father and i wanted to deal with that.</p><p>notes: characters as well as some sections of this text belong entirely to george r.r. martin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

i.

joffrey baratheon’s daemon was a swan, and absolutely no one was happy about it. she had been a lioness often as they grew, had been a dragon and a deer, and much else. but lorayne had settled, without any warning or discernible reason, just before his twelfth name day as a large swan with a long black neck. 

his mother was quiet and reserved, though it was plain that this was not the form she had desired her first-born son’s daemon to take, and joffrey was afraid to go before his father who would have no qualms telling him exactly what he thought of this. the confrontation would be loud and he may well get a beating from it - his father never thought long enough to summon the whipping boy, or perhaps just ignored his existence. so joffrey waited all day, and well into evening, willing himself to be strong and confident in the face of his embarrassment before he realized it was no use and he would have to go down to the feast at some point regardless of his pride. he put on his best smug smile and his most regal cloak of black velvet - which matched lorayne’s graceful curved neck and a white and cloth of gold doublet to mirror the rest of the swan’s body and proceeded down to the hall to face the king’s wrath. he had spent the better part of the day forming justifications and explanations for why this wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. the swan was the sigil of no house, great or small, and looked princely enough in its beauty. he was, after several hours of hard thinking, quite proud of his daemon - or at least he was ready to say as much if called upon to come to their defense. 

she did not give him any comfort. she had been silent all day, and whether she was merely reserved or sullenly brooding he could not quite tell. what he found when he arrived in the hall was his father, drunk and jovial on the dais. and when they caught each other’s eyes the king laughed loud enough to silence the rest of the hall and staggered to his feet. he fetched up his goblet of wine and raised it over his head. “here he comes! my boy!” and he laughed again, “i didn’t think he’d settle for years - but seven hells, if he hasn’t gone and done it.” and with that he drank his wine and slammed the empty goblet down on the table. “to joffrey!” he said, and roared with laughter again before sitting down. 

everyone drank to him, though it was clear they were as confused and unsettled as he was. it was customary to say what a daemon settled represented, what traits an animal form spoke of and how they reflected upon the person’s character, but his father made no mention of the swan form, no acknowledgment of anything beyond the fact that he was not yet twelve at his daemon was fixed. he saw his mother’s strained smile and the smirk on his uncle’s face, but the moment for confrontation had passed and there was nothing to do now but take his place beside his family. he noted that they had not removed stuffed swan from their menu that night, which he found to be in poor taste, but no one made him eat any of it and everyone seemed quite ready to ignore him for the remainder of the feast. 

he found he was becoming angry, and he moved his food about on his plate and scowled down at his feet for a time before excusing himself and returning to his room. once there he was able to take his anger out on everything in sight, and he slashed at the hangings on the bed and windows with his sword until his arm grew tired and there were ragged strips of cloth covering the floor. with that he threw his sword against the wall and lay down in his bed. lorayne ruffled her feathers and flew to her accustomed place beside him. 

“i could have told you he wouldn’t care.”

“then why didn’t you?” he spat back with as much fury as he could summon.

“because you wouldn’t have listened.”

“i hate him. i hate everything about him.”

“no,” lorayne said quietly, “you hate that we’re not the same as him. we’re not big and fearsome. and you hate me for that.”

joffrey was silent for a long time, and at last he realized there was nothing to say. she already knew how he felt, even though he couldn’t often understand her feelings. complex things. they could confuse him at times and he wondered if all boys and their daemons were a little out of sync with each other. somehow that didn’t seem true, but even though he felt closer lorayne than to anyone else there was still a divide. she could go farther from him than most children’s daemons. she scorned his black moods and quick temper when she was supposed to be on his side in all things. but they were all each other had. 

 

ii.

when sansa saw her prince for the first time she was overcome with joy and excitement, the rush of doing something daring and the satisfaction of feeling one gets from fulfilling one’s purpose in life. sansa was beautiful, and graceful and well mannered and it was her duty as a lady to make a lord fall in love with her. and she had found a prince. like in the stories and the songs. she had heard the young prince was fair to look upon, but never had they mentioned how perfect he was in all his velvet and gold with his sword at his hip. and his daemon! a creature just as beautiful and elegant as he - and she felt a rush in that instant knowing that they would marry and their song bird and swan daemons would be well suited to each other. the swan was rather large, but sansa was sure that eydron could manage to settle as a large songbird once he did settle. she felt terribly childish next to the prince with his daemon settled and hers still changing. but eydron kept his songbird form, a blue jay perched upon her shoulder with bright plumage and if not quite as regal as the swan, just as sweet to look upon. 

the king and queen were another matter. the queen’s lion was large and powerful, yet also slender. its mane was almost fair, sleek instead of wild; together with ser jaime’s lioness they made for a beautiful and imposing pair. the king did not have a deer like the sigil of his house but a great black ewe with large horns that curved up and around almost like a ram’s. they seemed so odd together, compared to the badger and wolf daemons of her mother and father. but, like the king and queen, the two were little in each other’s company. 

much as she feared it, sansa had no choice but to present herself before the queen. knowing she would likely be promised to joffrey, sansa must work hard to make her grace like her as well as she could. she found herself looking at her feet more than she felt she should in the presence of a queen, but her cold eyes held little comfort. sansa only looked up when the queen called her pretty, but then was forced to look down again to hide her blush as the queen asked if she were settled and flowered. she was neither, and her face turned bright red at the thought of being rejected because she was still a child and not fit to marry a prince. 

“but your daemon is rarely out of this state,” she said. “it is difficult to imagine it settling as anything else. a songbird seems becoming of you, my child.” sansa made her thanks with her eyes still on the floor. “you are not some great northern beast, you should look a sweet lady beside my joff.” she took sansa’s hand in her own and squeezed rather hard before letting go. “an elegant pair, wouldn’t you agree?” and sansa could tell it was not a question. there was almost a threat behind those words. 

“thank you, your grace.” she said quietly, and stepped down from the dais. she must be good, she thought as she returned to her seat beside her sister. she must be sweet and gentle and elegant and her prince must be powerful and strong. maybe eydron should settle as a smaller songbird after all. 

 

iii.

they had left just after bran’s fall, left him lying there asleep with summer at his side and no inclination that they would ever wake again. the maester had said he would live and sansa had to contend herself with that, though it scared her terribly the way they looked so small amid the heaped furs, so fragile, and summer flickered from shape to shape in their fevered dreams, always the same three forms over and over again: wolf, lion, raven. she put it from her mind, the road was no place for childish fears - there was adventure ahead and a new life and when bran woke he would join them in king’s landing. all would be well, she was sure of it. 

the king’s caravan had wound its way south for what seemed like ages before anything terrible happened. she and her prince went out walking. he had given her wine. she was feeling quite delighted in that moment, until they heard the clacking of stick swords coming from the river. when they saw it was arya and the butcher’s boy eydron puffed up and almost changed so as to give arya and nym a proper lesson. but he held back, feeling sansa’s reproach. a lady must not fight. arya was no lady though, it was clear that this was her doing or the butcher’s boy would never be down here. he looked shaken and nervous as they approached. joff didn’t know arya, he didn’t see this was her doing. and he might have been just a little drunk. she stifled a gasp when she saw him draw his blade, lion’s tooth he called it, and place its edge at the butcher boy’s cheek. a thin line of blood welled up where the steel met his skin, and the boy whimpered. she could not hear what he said but she could see what arya meant to do and cried out as she whacked at her prince with a wooden sword. that wild, evil girl would ruin everything, she must help her prince. but a lady didn’t rescue, a lady must not fight. 

in her moment of hesitation arya had taken the sword from joffrey’s hand and thrown it far out into the river. her prince was on the ground on his back, clutching at his arm and sansa saw that nym had lorayne pinned to the ground holding her wing between his jaws. she had no idea where the butcher’s boy had gone. arya dashed away as sansa shrieked in anger and rushed to joffrey’s side. eydron flew close to the swan and tried smooth the feathers of her wing where they were matted, but she snapped at him with her sharp black beak and made him back away. joffrey yelled at her to fetch help and she ran back to the sprawling camp the king’s party had made beside the road, cursing her sister the whole way. 

 

it was later when she and arya were dragged before the king and queen together that sansa realized the full extent of what had happened by the river. this was no children’s quarrel. this was nothing to dismiss and laugh about later. this was an attack on the crown and her sister had committed a great treason by hurting joffrey as she did. she could see it in the queen’s cold eyes and the way her lion paced restlessly before her. the king had not grasped the severity of the situation, it would seem, for he yelled at his wife to hold her tongue when she spoke of treachery. 

“my son says you and some brat boy savaged him,” he said to arya with his best effort at a stern face. at that moment sandor clegane, the man they called “the hound”, came in wearing full armor, his helm the likeness of a snarling black hound, ferocious and feral looking, fearsome to behold, but less fearsome to sansa than his hideously burned face.

in his arms he held the body of the butcher’s boy, wrapped clumsily in a red sheet that sansa only dimly realized had once been white. arya sank to her knees and whispered “mycha” which sansa took to be the boy’s name. her eyes were glistening in the torch light but she did not cry. she drew a deep breath and looked the king in the face and said that joffrey was a liar and that this boy they had killed was innocent. she told what had happened, and sansa knew that it was likely the truth, but she did not pay attention to her sister’s words. only the body wrapped in the sheet, the blood on the floor, and the look of pride on joffrey’s face. he caught her gaze and narrowed his eyes and she knew, knew in her heart that if she did not tell his version of the story it would mean the end of his favor. the end of their betrothal. perhaps the end of her life.

she stared at her feet, and eydron moved along her shoulder to rub his soft feathers against her cheek. 

“you, girl,” the kings voice drove itself into her thoughts and brought her sharply from them. “you were there. you tell it true now, what happened? tell it true and let the fault lie where it ought.” she made the mistake then of looking at joffrey, his confident leer, his perfect face looked so hateful in that moment. she could not bring herself to tell it as he said, she could not lie for him as she should, as a good lady would for her prince. she took a deep breath, and stepped forward to kneel before them.

“i don’t remember, your grace.” her voice quavered but she pressed on, “it all happened so fast. i couldn’t say.” the king grunted by way of an answer and made to leave, but the queen spoke out.

“is the beast who hurt your son to be left unpunished?”

“she’s just a girl cersei, leave it be.”

joffrey looked up at this, “she attacked me. her creature attacked my lorayne.” he clutched the swan to his chest as if the danger were all around them. 

“you let that little girl disarm you.” it was just a statement, but it was a heavy one. sansa could see it hit joffrey and the weight settle down upon him. he had been embarrassed, she realized. he was too ashamed to tell the truth and so he made up a lie, and because of it a boy had been killed and her sister was on trial.   
cersie called once more for justice and the king looked pained, and without realizing what she was doing she was on her feet and speaking, her voice was surprisingly calm. 

“please, your grace. arya is only a girl. whatever punishment you would give her - put to me instead. i was there as well and i failed to defend the prince.” the room grew silent. a moment passed, and then another, and sansa could see the shock was plainly written upon arya’s face even before she mouthed what are you doing? to her, from where she still knelt before the dais. 

“very well,” the queen took charge as the king shook his head and left the room grumbling of children’s fights and wastes of time. “you will ride for the remainder of our journey to king’s landing at the back of the column.” the queen paused and sansa almost believed that to be the end to her sentence. “your daemon shall ride in the center. in a cage. and i hope the pain you feel will teach you and your family to never raise a hand against me and mine again.”

all the calm she felt before had left her. she shook with fear and silently willed herself not to plead for some other punishment, to please just give it to arya instead because she was the one who was wild. but a lady must accept the judgement of others, especially of a queen. and so she was silent, and remained that way until the morning when she rose and they tore eydron away from her.

 

iv.

after each day’s ride she was permitted to go close to her daemon again, to ease the searing pain that was brought about by the great distance put between them. but he was not to be taken from his cage. arya had approached her before they set out, all haughty indignation, until she had seen the agony on sansa’s face. the fire had gone out of her then, and she could only mumble “you should have told it true and this wouldn’t have happened”, her feet kicking at the dust and her eyes on the ground before walking away again to join their father. the torture had not lessened through the hours and days that they rode, and the guards to either side of sansa seemed to be there more to keep her on her horse than to prevent her from running away. they would give her sips of watered wine and say kind words that she could barely hear and was too mad with pain to understand. she lived for the moment that they would stop to make camp and they could be brought close again, every step toward him seemed to ease the pain by some degree. but the morning would always come and they would be ripped away again.

it was five day’s time before her father could no longer hold his tongue, and by the end of the seventh day she was told they would not be parted like that again, only he must remain in his gilded cage that hung from the queen’s wheelhouse. she thanked the gods for this kindness. the queen must have forgiven them if she had allowed the sentence to be lessened. she must have seen the bravery in sansa’s actions instead of the treason. she was kind, only protective of her son as all mothers are. would not her lady mother have done the same to protect robb or bran? she had not thought of bran since they left winterfell, and the realization made her feel more retched than she had during those last few excruciating hours of the ride at the back of the column. she began her prayers again, asking the seven to make her brother well again, and even begging the old gods to watch over him. she would be good, a good lady and kind and just. she would protect those she loved, as the queen did, but she would try harder not to forget that she was not alone in her pain. that others suffered crueler fates which could not be reversed. 

 

it was over a fortnight from the fight at the river to when they reached king’s landing. sansa had counted each day that she had not been parted from eydron a blessing, and at last, in the shadow of the red keep, the queen herself unlocked his cage and he flew frantically to sansa’s shoulder. 

“never do that again,” he said to her, “it was very brave and very honorable, and very stupid and please please never do anything like that again.”

“never,” she said into the feathers of his neck. “i promise.”

they were ushered inside the gates and up circling stairs in the tower of the hand. the guards around them wore red cloaks that proclaimed them to be lannister men. her father’s own men wore cloaks of pale grey and looked, after a month of riding, bedraggled and shabby next to these pristine knights in their finery. 

they smiled at her and inclined their heads in small bows as they showed her to her new room - large and airy with a richly adorned bed. as the door closed she all but collapsed upon it, eydron changing from his jay form for the first time since winterfell and snuggling up beside her in the form of a badger only slightly smaller and fairer than her lady mother’s. it made her terribly homesick but the shape was reassuring and they both closed their eyes to sleep sound and whole for the first time since they had crossed into the south. they were safe at last, and all would be better before long, she thought drowsily. her prince would forgive her, and her sister would behave, and no one would ever harm her and eydron again.

 

v.  
the day before tourney of the hand was to begin sansa could barely contain her excitement. she had slept only a little the previous night and was already fully awake and sitting up in bed when there came a message that the queen had summoned her to her solar. sansa dressed with great care and proceeded through the castle under lannister guard, eydron fluttering about her nervously. the door to the solar stood open and within she found the queen overseeing while a seamstress arranged bolts of cloth. she herself was wearing a low cut dress of dazzling emerald embroidered with gold thread and was pointing toward a bolt of pale blue satin. her daemon was stretched luxuriously at her feet, twitching his tail impatiently. 

“that should do,” she looked to the door and saw sansa standing hesitantly outside it. “ah, there you are.”

sansa took that as permission to enter, stepping forward and bending her head down. “you wished to see me, your grace?”

“you’re to have new clothes made for you. a fine dress should do for now, we can’t have you dressed like a child for the tourney now can we?” she allowed the corners of her mouth to turn slightly upward as she looked at sansa.”you will forgive my harshness on our journey, i know.” and she took a step forward to take sansa’s hands in her own. “a lion protects its pride.”

sansa was not sure what to say to this. it was not a request. “of course, your grace,” she said quietly, “a wolf does as well.”

the queen smiled, the feeling never reaching her eyes. “but you are not a wolf, are you sweetling?”

“n-no your grace.” she stammered. she was a little bird, she was just a little bird, and a lady, not a wolf. it was for her father and brothers to be wolves. she felt wretched at having misspoken, but the queen gestured for the seamstress then and left the room. 

the dress was a fine thing once it was made, a pale blue to match her eyes and the plumage of eydron’s jay form that the queen so favored, the dagged sleeves hung nearly to the floor, the tight bodice low cut made her look much older than she had ever looked in the high-necked dresses she wore at home. she spun before the glass to see herself, smiling at the effect, and yet she felt nervous still, frightened by the gift and what it might or might not mean. perhaps, she thought, frowning at the lady reflected back to her in the mirror, she would never feel simple delight again. perhaps this was part of growing up.

 

vi.

sansa rode to the hand’s tourney with septa mordane and jeyne poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. they turned the whole world gold. beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games.

“it is better than the songs,” she whispered to eydron when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies.

the splendor of it all took sansa’s breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, trumpets sounding and the banners rippling in the light morning breeze. the knights were gallant and shining, the ladies and lords of the court were splendid in all their finery. cloth of gold and silks and satins abounded, and jewels glinted in the sun from the stands. she and jeyne whispered together about the knights while septa mordane lectured arya, who had appeared late - covered in dust and dirt and scratches, looking more like a gutter rat from flea bottom than a lady of noble birth. they ignored her, it was easy with so many things to admire and wonder over.

all was exactly as sansa had pictured it, except for the king. from her place in the stands she could see the royal pavilion clearly; the queen was the embodiment of elegance, the prince beside her, though appearing to be rather bored and impatient for the start of the joust, was regal, his brother and sister, who sat just off to the side, had a cherubic sort of dignity that spoke of their high class and birth. the king looked to be none of these things. he was very drunk, though it was only mid-morning, and could be heard bleating and bellowing louder even than his daemon at the injustice of a world in which a king could not fight a tourney in his own kingdom. neither the queen, nor the lion resting at her feet, showed the slightest inclination toward easing the king's distress; both looked straight ahead as if nothing were amiss and her children took their cue from her and acted accordingly, though the kitten on prince tomen's lap betrayed them by jumping in alarm with each fresh bout of cursing. the king drained another goblet of wine and threw it to the ground, his fit seeming to be over at last as he yelled "well start the bloody thing already!" and the knights scrambled to take up their positions for the first tilt.

beside her, arya was fidgeting and nym was nipping at the air beside eydron, trying to startle him into changing. eydron, for his part, kept his head held high and paid no attention. sansa was proud of him, ignoring the annoyance.

jory, alyn, and harwin rode for winterfell and the north. “jory looks a beggar among these others,” septa mordane sniffed when he appeared, sitting up straighter while her daemon puffed out the feathers on his neck and head.  
sansa could only agree.

her father's captain of the guard wore armor of blue-grey plate without device or ornament, and a thin grey cloak hung from his shoulders like a soiled rag. he sat astride a shaggy northern garron and with his huge brindled wolfhound loping at his side, looking as course and wild as the north itself.

yet he acquitted himself well, unhorsing the first two knights with ease. it was not until the third tilt with his third opponent that he finally lost, but at least he was not knocked from his horse.

the winterfell men that followed him in the lists did not last very long. she did not mind though, set against the knights of the king's guard she had not expected them to win. arya seemed angry, until they saw barristan the bold, his silver-white osprey perched upon his snowy cloak, and both were reminded of bran and wished he were there with them.

the jousting went all day and into the dusk, the hooves of the great warhorses pounding down the lists until the field was a ragged wasteland of torn earth, littered with splinters from lances as the riders crashed together. jeyne closed her eyes whenever a man fell, turning her face away and hiding behind her daemon like a frightened little girl, but sansa and eydron were made of sterner stuff. 

a great lady knew how to behave at tournaments. even septa mordane noted her composure and nodded in approval.  
amid the shining white front of the men in the king’s guard stood jaime lannister, adorned in brilliant golden armour and smirking lazily at everything, or nothing in particular. his lioness lay at his feet, but her eyes were fixed upon the royal pavilion and sansa could see the pale gold eyes of her maned twin gazing back at her. they are truly one and the same, she thought. she wondered why it unsettled her so.

jaime road brilliantly, overthrowing two other knights with ease before facing off against barristan the bold, and sansa could hear arya and nym arguing quietly over who would win and how long it would take. it was a hard-fought match, and old though he was, she was shocked when ser barristan was defeated. jaime showed him respect though, even in his victory. a reverence and kindness that she had not expected from the one they called kingslayer.

sansa was startled as the next pair approached the grounds, a young knight wearing the blue cloak and falcon sigil of the vale of arryn, a golden haired dog trotting at his side, and opposite him a man that could have easily been one of the giants from old nann’s stories.

"the mountain that rides" she heard him called, and the name was no exaggeration. he towered over the other knights, and was almost as broad as he was tall. his eyes shone maliciously through the slit in his helm; he looked violent, blood thirsty. his daemon was no different, a massive lumbering aurochs, almost half again the size of the ones she had seen used to pull plows, and wild-looking - snorting and striking at the ground with massive hooves that looked like they could flatten a man’s skull with no effort at all.

the trumpets sounded for the first tilt, ser hugh and the mountain leveling their lances and kicking their mounts into motion. but instead of the clash of lance on shield as they met in the center there was only a sickening gurgle, followed by screams from the crowd as ser hugh dropped from his horse and fell to the ground not ten feet from where sansa was seated, blood spurting around the large shard of wood embedded in his neck, his daemon guttering out like an extinguished flame.

jeyne poole wept so hysterically that septa mordane finally took her off to regain her composure, but sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching with a strange fascination, even as she felt the rapid flutter of fear in eydron’s heart. they had never seen a man die before, and frightening though it was to think of eydron vanishing into thin air as this man’s daemon had, she felt oddly numb. she ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come. perhaps she had used up all her tears for bran, and for her own torment on the kingsroad.

after they carried off the body, a boy with a spade ran onto the field and shoveled dirt over the spot where he had fallen, to cover up the blood. then the jousts resumed.

it dragged on and on, the bench growing ever more uncomfortable beneath her and sansa growing ever more restless until she saw ser loras tyrell, the youth they called the knight of flowers. his helm was tucked under his arm, and roses streamed from his shoulders and down his back in place of a cloak.

his daemon was a hummingbird, beautifully colored with wings beating in a fast blur that she heard matched his swiftness with a sword. at sixteen, he was the youngest rider on the field, yet he had unhorsed three knights of the kingsguard that morning in his first three jousts. sansa had never seen anyone so beautiful. his plate was intricately fashioned and enameled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers, and his snow-white horse was draped in a blanket of red and white roses. after each victory, ser loras would remove his helm and ride slowly round the fence, and finally pluck a single white rose from the blanket and toss it to some fair maiden in the crowd.

he won joust after joust, but she barely saw the opponents he rode against. her eyes were only for ser loras. when the white horse stopped in front of her, she thought her heart would burst.  
to the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. “sweet lady,” he said, “no victory is half so beautiful as you.” sansa took the flower timidly, struck dumb by his gallantry. his hair was a mass of lazy brown curls, his eyes like liquid gold. she inhaled the sweet fragrance of the rose and sat clutching it long after ser loras had ridden off.

when sansa finally looked up, a man was standing over her, staring. he was short, with a pointed beard and a silver streak in his hair, almost as old as her father. perched upon his shoulder was a bird of the same silvery color, patterned with darker grey and staring at her with as much intensity as the man himself.

“you must be one of her daughters,” he said to her. he had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did. “you have the tully look.”

“i’m sansa stark,” she said, ill at ease. the man had the effortless manner of a high lord, but she did not know him. “i have not had the honor, my lord.”

septa mordane quickly took a hand. “sweet child, this is lord petyr baelish, of the king’s small council.”

“your mother was my queen of beauty once,” the man said quietly. his breath smelled of mint. “you have her hair.” his fingers brushed against her cheek as he stroked one auburn lock. he turned abruptly then and left, but sansa still felt the traces of his touch upon her skin - it left her cold and uneasy.

eydron’s feathers were puffed out in indignation. “i do not like the look of that man,” he said to her quietly as they turned their gaze back to the tourney grounds.

“nor his manner,” sansa added. she would have to ask her mother about him when she next saw her. she could not believe this sly looking creature had ever meant anything to her.

by then, the moon was well up and the crowd was tired, so the king decreed that the last three matches would be fought the next morning, before the melee. while the commons began their walk home, talking of the day’s jousts and the matches to come on the morrow, the court moved to the riverside to begin the feast. sansa thought she would have little appetite after the stink and gore of the tourney, but as the sun set and the air cooled the sumptuous scent of roasted meat began to pervade the grounds and her stomach growled loudly. eyrdon was flying beside her, imitating the lightning bugs that flashed and glowed in the gathering dark.

 

vii.

 

his mother had told him he was to be gallant – that was what was expected of him. the wound upon his arm was healed, there was not even a visible trace of a scar, and he was still betrothed to sansa stark, though he had avoided her since that day by the river. lorayne walked beside him to the place at which sansa and her septa were seated - they were given places of high honor, to the left of the raised dais where his father sat gorging on meat and wine next to his mother. prince joffrey seated himself to sansa’s right, and he could see the nervousness come over her at his presence.

was he truly such a terror? he knew he had ignored her, and that she had taken great pain on his behalf – no, he reminded himself, she did it to save that foul sister of hers. he felt his lip begin to turn upwards in a sneer but managed to control it before it could frighten the girl any more. the beastly child was nowhere in sight, thank the seven, and he felt sure he could play the part of the charming prince if he had only sansa and her septa to contend with.

he looked the part already, in a deep blue doublet studded with a double row of golden lion’s heads, a slim coronet of gold and sapphires around his brow. lorayne too was making an effort, not her normal distant self, but warm and caring, taking sansa’s daemon under the comfort of her large wings and cooing softly.

he flashed sansa a winning smile and kissed her hand, handsome and gallant as any prince in the songs, and said, “ser loras has a keen eye for beauty, sweet lady.”

“he was too kind,” she demurred. “ser loras is a true knight. do you think he will win tomorrow, my lord?”

“no,” joffrey said, fighting down his irritation at having to discuss knightly affairs with a foolish girl. “my dog will do for him, or perhaps my uncle jaime. and in a few years, when i am old enough to enter the lists, i shall do for them all.” he raised his hand to summon a servant with a flagon of iced summerwine, and poured her a cup. the crone beside her raised an eyebrow at him, so joffrey leaned over and filled the septa’s cup as well; she nodded and thanked him graciously and said not another word. 

the servants kept the cups filled all night, but wine held little savor for him. he could hear his father’s thick voice rising over the sound of the music, growing more belligerent with each passing course. his appetite waned, he grew sick each time he heard the ribald jests the king was roaring from the high table, and he glanced anxiously at his mother’s cool composed face to try and gain his own calm. lorayne could not speak to him openly, but he felt her radiating reassurance to him, trying to sooth the temper rising in him like black bile.

his manners toward sansa remained perfect - he talked to her all night, showering her with compliments, making her laugh, sharing little bits of court gossip, explaining moon boy’s japes. all the while the courses came and went. a thick soup of barley and venison. salads of sweetgrass and spinach and plums, sprinkled with crushed nuts. snails in honey and garlic. sansa had never eaten snails before; joffrey showed her how to get the snail out of the shell, and fed her the first sweet morsel himself. then came trout fresh from the river, baked in clay; he helped her crack open the hard casing to expose the flaky white flesh within. and when the meat course was brought out, he served her himself, slicing a queen’s portion from the joint, smiling as he laid it on her plate.

it was not until well into the dessert courses that the king began to shout.

joffrey knew that few but himself had attended his father’s growing drunkenness with any alarm, it was a daily occurrence after all, but through the years he had learned to tell a good day from a bad – a jolly bout of drinking from one that would turn angry and violent, and after the display of this morning he had known this would be one of those dreaded nights.  
few had heard the cruel edge to his voice earlier, but everybody heard him now.

“no, “ he thundered in a voice that drowned out all other speech. he was on his feet, red of face, reeling. he had a goblet of wine in one hand, as drunk as a man could be. “you do not tell me what to do, woman,” he screamed at queen cersei. “i am king here, do you understand? i rule here, and if i say that i will fight tomorrow, i will fight!”

beside him eirene was pawing at the ground, her black hooves churning up the dust and her eyes fixed upon the calm pale luminance of his mother’s daemon. the lion did not give the goat more than a cursory glance.

everyone else was staring. ser barristan, and uncle renly were tense and alert, but none made a move to interfere. mother’s face was a mask, so bloodless that it might have been sculpted from snow while joffrey’s was flushed with embarrassment. she rose from the table, gathered her skirts around her, and stormed off in silence, servants trailing behind.

jaime put a hand on his father’s shoulder, but the king shoved him away hard. uncle jaime stumbled and fell.

“the great knight. i can still knock you in the dirt. remember that, kingslayer,” he slapped his chest with the jeweled goblet, splashing wine all over his satin tunic. “give me my hammer and not a man in the realm can stand before me!”  
jaime rose and brushed himself off. “as you say, your grace.” his voice was stiff.

renly came forward, smiling. “you’ve spilled your wine, robert. let me bring you a fresh goblet.”

joffrey could watch no longer, he was barely able to keep himself from shaking with the rage and disgust that came over him. lorayne too was losing her composure in the wake of the actions of the king. ha, king! what a sham. this court was full of fools and his father was king only that he was the biggest and loudest fool of them all. and yet he still worshipped him, still wished desperately for his approval even when he knew it was worth less than nothing.  
he wanted to stab something.

sansa jumped as he laid his hand on her arm. “it grows late,” joffrey said, not meeting her eyes , focusing only on keeping his voice steady. “do you need an escort back to the castle?”

he half listened. whatever she was saying his response would be the same.

joffrey called out, “dog!” and told the hound to see sansa back to the red keep safely before he stalked off into the night. 

 

viii. 

the hound growled in the dark behind her, "pay him no mind little bird." the horror of his face was lessened by the darkness. he pulled her unresisting to her feet. “come, you’re not the only one needs sleep. i’ve drunk too much, and i may need to kill my brother tomorrow.” he laughed, a sound like the strangled bark of a wounded dog.  
she could not see his daemon anywhere. suddenly terrified, sansa pushed at septa mordane’s shoulder, hoping to wake her, but she only snored the louder. king robert had stumbled off and half the benches were suddenly empty. the feast was over, and the beautiful dream had ended with it.

the hound snatched up a torch to light their way. sansa followed close beside him. she kept her eyes lowered, watching where she placed her feet. the silence weighing heavier with every step. sansa could not bear the sight of him, he frightened her so, yet she had been raised in all the ways of courtesy. a true lady would not notice his face, she told herself. “you rode gallantly today, ser sandor,” she made herself say.

sandor clegane snarled at her. “spare me your empty little compliments, girl... and your ser’s. i am no knight. i spit on them and their vows. my brother is a knight. did you see him ride today?”

“yes,” sansa whispered, trembling. “he was... “

“gallant?” the hound finished.

he was mocking her, she realized. “no one could withstand him,” she managed at last, proud of herself. it was no lie.  
sandor clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. she had no choice but to stop beside him. “some septa trained you well. you’re just like that bird on your shoulder, aren’t you? a pretty little talking -bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.”

“that’s unkind.” sansa could feel her heart fluttering in her chest. “you’re frightening me. i want to go now.”

“no one could withstand him, “ the hound rasped. “that’s truth enough. no one could ever withstand gregor. look at me. look at me!” sandor clegane put a huge hand under her chin and forced her face up. he squatted in front of her, and moved the torch close. “there’s a pretty for you. take a good long stare. you know you want to. i’ve watched you turning away all the way down the kingsroad. piss on that. take your look.”

his fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. his eyes watched hers. drunken eyes, sullen with anger. she had to look. the right side of his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a grey eye beneath a heavy brow. his nose was large and hooked, his hair thin, dark. he wore it long and brushed it sideways, because no hair grew on the other side of that face.

the left side of his face was a ruin. his ear had been burned away; there was nothing left but a hole. his eye was still good, but all around it was a twisted mass of scar, slick black flesh hard as leather, pocked with craters and fissured by deep cracks that gleamed red and wet when he moved. down by his jaw, you could see a hint of bone where the flesh had been seared away.

she cringed. he let go of her then, and snuffed out the torch in the dirt. “no pretty words for that, girl? no little compliment the septa taught you?” when there was no answer, he continued. “most of them, they think it was some battle. a siege, a burning tower, an enemy with a torch. one fool asked if it was dragonsbreath.” his laugh was softer this time, but just as bitter. “i’ll tell you what it was, girl,” he said, a voice from the night, a shadow leaning so close now that she could smell the sour stench of wine on his breath. his story was horrifying, how gregor had held his face down in the burning coals of a brazier while he screamed and screamed. she could picture the strength and brutality of gregor as a boy, hear sandor’s cries for help. as he talked she felt more and more for him, his pain.

“my father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. ointments! gregor got his ointments too. four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and rhaegar targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘arise, ser gregor.’ “

the rasping voice trailed off. he squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. his daemon stepped forward then, seeming to materialize out of darkness itself, brushing herself against him in a comforting gesture that made sansa’s heart swell with sorrow. it was the first time she had seen her closely. a strange looking beast, a hound perhaps - since that was what they were called, but it looked like no dog she had ever seen. her fur had the sparse and brittle look of a wild thing, and she saw ferocity in her eyes.

sansa could hear sandor’s ragged breathing. she was only sad for him, she realized. somehow, the fear had gone away.  
the silence went on and on, both she and eydron completely at a loss for how to comfort him. she began to grow afraid once more, but she was afraid for him now, not for herself. she found his massive shoulder with her hand. “he was no true knight,” she whispered to him.

he only nodded, avoiding her eyes.

eydron was the one to break the silence, and sansa was shocked as he seldom spoke to anyone but herself, his sweet voice high and clear as he said “may i ask, what form your daemon is in? i would ask her myself but i do not know her name and i have never seen one such as her before.”

sandor’s laugh sounded kind now, “no, you wouldn’t have. don't have them much up north, don't like the wolves.” his voice sounded thick and sansa realized he had been crying. “in westeros they call her a brush hound, but these animals are all over the known world it seems. i heard a foreigner call her a ‘coyote’ and liked the sound of that better.”

“and she isn’t –“ eydron broke off, not knowing if his unasked question was too rude.

“scarred?” his daemon spoke for him, her voice oddly soft and melodious in contrast to his own.

“no,” said sandor, and he sounded bitter once more. “it takes more than pain to scar a soul, little bird. changes its shape, though. remember that. it might be a comfort to you some day.” he cleared his throat, forcing back the emotion that was seeping into his voice again. “besides,” he went on, patting the top of his daemon’s head, “she taught me what kind of a man i am, what i’m good at.”

his words begged a response and sansa asked without much hesitation, “and what is that?”

"survival," said his daemon, and with that she stalked off into the dark, the hound following behind her, weaving slightly in his intoxication.

the rest of the way into the city, they said not a word. he led her to where the carts were waiting, told a driver to take them back to the red keep, and climbed in after her. they rode in silence through the king’s gate and up torchlit city streets. he opened the postern door and led her into the castle, his burned face twitching and his eyes brooding, and he was one step behind her as they climbed the tower stairs. he took her safe all the way to the corridor outside her bedchamber.

“thank you, my lord,” sansa said meekly.

the hound caught her by the arm and leaned close. “the things i told you tonight,” he said, his voice sounding even rougher than usual. “if you ever tell joffrey... your sister, your father... any of them...”

“i won’t,” sansa whispered. “i promise.”

it was not enough. “if you ever tell anyone,” he finished, “i’ll kill you.”

sansa nodded, no doubt at all in her mind of the truth in that statement. he left them then, walking back down to where his coyote waited on the tower steps.

she closed the door and leaned heavily against it, exhausted and confused, realizing just how little one could know of a person from the way they acted. but there was no way to hide oneself fully, a daemon was a telling thing. but she couldn't see why the hound would care what she thought of him, why he wanted her to know anything about him. perhaps, she thought as she slipped gratefully into bed, it was only the drink.

 

ix.

 

her father was holding court in place of the king, and sansa felt proud to see him looking so dignified and stately as he heard the cases brought before him by noblemen and commoners alike. and yet the sight of his grim face, set with lines of pain that he refused to dull with milk of the poppy, frightened her. he had taken the deaths of his men hard, turning it in on himself as he always did, bottling it up and trying not to show it, but he hid his grief poorly. honor was a heavy burden to bear it seemed, and with breanna at his feet, as still and silent as the statues in the crypts beneath winterfell, he looked like one of those ancient kings in the north who she knew only by the names carved upon their tombs. she shivered, and eydron moved closer to comfort her. he seemed to be doing that more and more often of late. 

her attention was drawn back to the court as ser loras spoke up, offering to accept the responsibility of bringing the king’s justice to ser gregor clegane. after the things the hound had told her she felt even more that gregor was a monster, and she could think of no knight more perfect to slay the beast than ser loras. he even looked a true hero, so slim and beautiful, with golden roses around his slender waist and his rich brown hair tumbling down into his eyes. but her father refused him! she was confused as she heard him order beric dondarrion to do the deed instead. surely he had his reasons, but even eydron seemed to think it a poor choice. loras was a skilled fighter after all, though his daemon was small it did not mean he was weak. septa mordane clucked and scolded her when she voiced her disapproval, though.

and then lord baelish appeared at her side, speaking in his strangely hushed voice as if each word he spoke was a great secret, “oh, i don’t know, septa. some of her lord father’s decisions could do with a bit of questioning. the young lady is as wise as she is lovely.” he made a sweeping bow to sansa, so deep she was not quite sure if she was being complimented or mocked.  
the bird on his shoulder twittered as if she were in on the joke. lord baelish stroked his little pointed beard and said, “tell me, child, why would you have sent ser loras?”

sansa had no choice but to explain about heroes and monsters. the king’s councillor smiled. “well, those are not the reasons i’d have given, but...” he had touched her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the line of a cheekbone. “life is not a song, sweetling. you may learn that one day to your sorrow.”

she shivered. he made her feel as though something slimy were slithering over her naked skin. 

 

father was sending more of his own men with lord beric, his household guard was diminished to almost nothing now. the tower of the hand seemed so empty without them all that sansa was even pleased to see arya and nym when she went down to break her fast. “where is everyone?” her sister wanted to know as she ripped the skin from a blood orange. “did father send them to hunt down jaime lannister?”

sansa sighed. “they rode with lord beric, to behead ser gregor clegane.”

“what did gregor do?” arya asked. what didn’t he do? sansa thought. she had formed such vivid images in her mind of gregor’s brutality, she had forgotten that no one else knew.

“he burned down a holdfast and murdered a lot of people, women and children too.”

arya screwed up her face in a scowl. “jaime lannister murdered jory and heward and wyl, and the hound murdered mycah. somebody should have beheaded them.”

“it’s not the same,” sansa said. “the hound isn’t evil; he’s joffrey’s sworn shield. your butcher’s boy attacked the prince.”  
sansa didn’t want to think about that day, and she didn’t know why arya had to bring it up. she had suffered more than arya had. she’d taken the punishment for her.

“liar,” arya said. her hand clenched the blood orange so hard that red juice oozed between her fingers. 

“go ahead, call me all the names you want,” sansa said airily, she would not let arya know she had upset her. “you won’t dare when i’m married to joffrey. you’ll have to bow to me and call me your grace.” she shrieked as arya flung the orange across the table. it caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap. nym was growling low in his throat and eydron had retreated, trying to hide behind sansa.

“you have juice on your face, your grace,” arya said.

it was running down her nose and stinging her eyes. sansa wiped it away with a napkin. when she saw what the fruit in her lap had done to her beautiful ivory silk dress, she shrieked again. “you’re horrible,” she screamed at her sister. “i should have let the queen hurt you!”

septa mordane came lurching to her feet. “your lord father will hear of this!” she grabbed arya by the scruff of her neck like a puppy as her daemon batted his wings at eydron and drove them toward the door.

sansa tried to protest but the septa would hear none of it. they were forced to wait outside their father’s solar while septa mordane told him of the incident. his voice sounded impatient, but they couldn’t make out his words. the door burst open and she came bustling out, shaking her head and gesturing for them to enter.

lord eddard was bent over a huge leather-bound book when septa mordane marched her into the solar, his plaster-wrapped leg stiff beneath the table, breanna was pacing around the room and looked up at her sharply as if sansa had interrupted something. “come here,” father said, not unkindly, when the septa had gone. “sit beside me.” he closed the book.

nym growled at the door as it closed and breanna gave him a sharp nip on the ear, making arya jump.

“ i’m sending you both back to winterfell.”

for the second time sansa found herself too stunned for words. she felt tears welling in her eyes.

“you can’t,” arya said.

“please, father,” sansa managed at last. “please don’t.”

eddard stark favored his daughters with a tired smile. “at last we’ve found something you agree on.”

“i didn’t do anything wrong,” sansa pleaded with him. “i don’t want to go back.” she missed her mother, true, but she loved king’s landing, and there was so much she had not seen yet, harvest feasts and masked balls and mummer shows. she could not bear the thought of losing it all. “send arya away, she started it, father, i swear it. i’ll be good, you’ll see, just let me stay and i promise to be as fine and noble and courteous as the queen.”

father’s mouth twitched strangely. “sansa, i’m not sending you away for anything you did. i want you back in winterfell for your own safety. three of my men were cut down like dogs not a league from where we sit, and what does robert do? he goes hunting.” breanna moved to stand beside him, nudging him with her head affectionately.

arya was chewing at her lip in that disgusting way she had, looking from nym to their father and back again in consternation. “can we take syrio back with us?”

“who cares about your stupid dancing master?” sansa flared. “father, i only just now remembered, i can’t go away, i’m to marry prince joffrey.” she tried to smile bravely for him, remembering joffrey’s gallantry at the feast and how kind and gentle he had been until the king had broken the spell of the evening. “i love him, father, i truly truly do, i love him as much as queen naerys loved prince aemon the dragonknight, as much as jonquil loved ser florian. i want to be his queen and have his babies.”

arya made a noise of disgust.

“sweet one,” her father said gently, “listen to me. when you’re old enough, i will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. this match with joffrey was a terrible mistake. that boy is no prince aemon, you must believe me.”

“he is!” sansa insisted. “i don’t want someone brave and gentle, i want him. we’ll be ever so happy, just like in the songs, you’ll see. i’ll give him a son with golden hair, and one day he’ll be the king of all the realm, the greatest king that ever was, as brave as the wolf and as proud as the lion.”

arya made a face. “not if joffrey’s his father,” she said. “he’s a liar and a craven and anyhow he’s a swan, not a lion. and he’s a baratheon and his son would be too.”

sansa felt tears in her eyes. “he is not! he’s not the least bit like that old drunken king,” she screamed at her sister, forgetting herself in her grief. eydron flew to her, trying to calm her but it was no use.

father looked at her strangely. “gods, “ he swore softly, “out of the mouth of babes...” he shouted for septa mordane. to the girls he said, “i am looking for a fast trading galley to take you home. these days, the sea is safer than the kingsroad. you will sail as soon as i can find a proper ship, with septa mordane and a complement of guards... and yes, with syrio forel, if he agrees to enter my service. but say nothing of this. it’s better if no one knows of our plans. we’ll talk again tomorrow.”

sansa cried as they left father’s chambers, he was taking it all away; the tournaments and the court and her prince, everything, she was going back to the bleak grey walls of winterfell forever. her life was over before it had begun.

“it won’t be so bad, sansa,” arya said. “we’re going to sail on a galley. it will be an adventure, and then we’ll be with bran and robb again, and old nan and hodor and the rest.” she touched her on the arm, but sansa was beyond comforting. 

 

x.

 

he had wanted to go on the hunt. he was a man now, grown and settled and it was his right to go with his father and uncle if he wanted to. but his mother wouldn't let him and his father didn't want him there, so here he was. stuck in the red keep like a woman, like a child. the drapes in his room took the brunt of his rage, again, as he slashed at them with the new sword that had been made for him in the castle forge - "swan's beak" renly had taken to calling it, or "duck bill" when he wanted to be especially irksome. sometimes he really hated his uncle. 

"you didn't want to go anyways. admit it," lorayne said in a bored tone from the cushion she was laying on. "you just wanted them to ask you so you could refuse."

"shut up." he slashed at the curtains once more and they fell from the window in a mangled heap.

"why do you care? be honest joffrey, we both know he isn't worth it. you hate him. he's a drunk and lecher, and that bruise on mother's face didn't come from nowhere."

"his is the king! he's our father -" joffrey was at a loss to say more. his face was red with anger and he didn't understand how the calm emanating from lorayne wasn't affecting him, how she could seem so completely other at times when she was a part of him. he felt connected to her when he was calculated, when he was calm, but never when he was enraged. and right now she was looking at him and he could feel her pity for him, see it in her eyes, and he didn't understand it.

"keep telling yourself that," was all she said before she turned from him and began to clean her feathers. 

he slumped down on the bed, empty and exhausted. 

 

his regrets were short lived. 

he awoke one morning to the sound of renly's voice, distant and frantic, yelling as he ran through the halls of the red keep - shouting for help for his brother and king. he and lorayne shared one moment of confused fear before jumping from the bed and dashing from the room. 

he found his mother first, sitting in her solar with lan pacing before her, looking restless and impatient where she looked serene. joffrey wondered how she could have failed to hear renly's shouting. 

"something's happened to father," it was all he could think to say - he wasn't sure what had happened, and he felt stupid at having run to her like a child. her face remained placid though, and he wondered what she was feeling, if she was feeling the same confused mixture of emotions as he was.

"yes." it was a statement, not a question, not a prompt for more information. it was unsurprised and final, discouraging further inquiry. he stood there dumbly, looking at her and saying nothing, and at that moment renly bust into the room. he was covered in sweat and dirt, his green armour smeared with dark thick clotted blood, his hands red and shaking. the doe at his side looked startled and frightened, there was blood on her coat as well and joffrey wondered if it belonged to father's daemon. he had never seen a daemon bleed before. 

"robert's been hurt," he said breathlessly and at this joffrey saw a flicker of surprise cross his mother's face before she was able to master her emotions. lan's tail twitched. renly went on, undaunted by her lack of response, "the boar - i tried to help him but...i've taken him to pycell, but i -" his voice sounded about to break and he took one shuddering breath before going on, his voice deeper and more controlled. "i don't know how serious the injury is. you must come quickly, he needs his family by his side." joffrey doubted very much that his father had said this, it seemed more of a notion that renly would have.

his mother arched one perfect eyebrow, but her voice sounded sincerely worried when she replied "take me to him."

she rose and swept from the room. he stood motionless for a moment before running after them down the corridor.

the room his father was in was crowded with attendants and stank with the smell of the wound and the medicines pycell was concocting and administering, the old man bustled and shuffled about as his shrew daemon peered cautiously out from a pocket in his sleeve.

joffrey recognized the heady scent of milk of the poppy and saw that his father's eyes were glazed with the effects of the drug. eirene lay beside him on the bed, seemingly uninjured, but with that same vacant look in her eyes.

he’s going to die. he realized this with a strange mixture of emotions; there was sadness there, a sadness deeper than he had ever felt before, but there was joy too, excitement, anticipation. i’m going to be king. 

he walked toward the bed without even realizing his feet were moving, wondering if his father was awake. he wanted to be there, wanted to be there for his last words and last moments of consciousness for reasons that were too complicated for him to sort out, even in his own mind. he would not intrude on the king's last breath - that was between a man and his daemon. that was private. but he was robert’s son and heir and it was his right to be here until that moment came. 

as he passed the servants and attendants he saw stark, leaning heavily on a stick from the wound his uncle jaime had given him. he deserved it, the traitor. he had no right to stand at his father's bedside. he had no right to be the hand of the king when he had forsaken the office. his quiet brooding sickened joffrey. the man thought he was wise and powerful, a good adviser to the king and a good warden of the barren wild north, but power weighed heavily on him. he could see it in the drawn lines of his face - he was never meant for it. he would always be a second son, born to follow, not to lead. the best thing this man had done in his life was sire a pretty girl for the future king to marry, and now that future was drawing near. 

he would have sons, sons born to rule and lead men, and he would be a better father to them than his father was to him, a better king to this people. he was above drinking and whoring, women didn't matter to him. what was a woman compared to a crown and a throne? but still, he had a lady, and his lady would ensure that his legacy would be carried on, that the power of the kingdom would never have to rest in the unfit hands of a second son. he stood up straighter, looking regal and strong as he stood beside the king's deathbed, a respectful prince stoically holding his vigil. he would not leave his father's side until he spoke to him.

but his father was speaking only to stark, and his thick voice rose only to say “now leave us. the lot of you. i need to speak with ned.”

“robert, my sweet lord,” his mother began, casting a look back at joffrey.

“i said leave,” robert insisted with a hint of his old fierceness. “what part of that don’t you understand, woman?” he kept his mouth shut as he followed his mother from the room.

his father had the love of the people, but that did not make him a good man, or a good king. it was said that even his enemies loved him, or those that had been his enemies before he took the iron throne. he inspired loyalty out of friendship - but a king was not meant to be friends with those he ruled. friendship and love were weaker forces than those needed to protect a realm. aegon the conqueror had not won the seven kingdoms with love - he took them by force and by fear. those who knelt to him knelt out of the respect borne of terror and the targaryens had held the throne for centuries after. fear was the ultimate power, and every good ruler in history had known it and used it to his advantage. joffrey would have to earn their fear from his actions, he had no dragon daemon to burn those who opposed him to cinders, he had no war hammer to crush his enemies, but he knew what weak men feared. he had known how to make those lesser than him tremble from the time he was a child, and every man would be lesser than him soon enough. he looked down at the once mighty warrior, robert of the house boratheon, unstoppable in battle - but kinghood had destroyed him, joffrey could see that now. fat and weak, slow enough to be gored to death by a boar that he hunted.

he had smelled the wine under the reek of the gash in his father's side, mingled with the smell of the medicines he had been drugged with. had he been drunk? was that what brought him down? of course he had been drunk, he was always drunk. the fool. he'd killed himself with it, and the men with him had done nothing to stop it. how could they? no one could refuse the king. he thought back to the feast, to his shame as his father stumbled and shouted before all the court. no, joffrey would never disgrace himself like that before his people. everyone had known robert's weaknesses, but joffrey would show them nothing.

any who questioned his strength would learn first hand that a true king had no weaknesses, a true king was more than a man. he was a god that mortal men could never truly know. he was the stranger and the only mercy that the stranger gave was the escape of death.

 

xi.

 

her father would not let them leave the tower. she and eydron would be locked in here until they left for winterfell and she would never even get to say goodbye to her prince. she was furious, and defeated. there was nothing whatsoever she could do. she knew that arya had been allowed to go to her dancing lessons, and that made it even worse, knowing that she and nym were free to do what they wanted while she was trapped here. 

he had gone to speak with the queen, but he had not told them why. she knew only that he would send someone for her when it was time to go to the boat that would carry her home. eydron was almost excited, and sansa could not fathom how their feelings could be so different. like arya he was talking about seeing everyone again, mother and bran, robb and rickon. she could only think of how bleak and boring her life had been before she came here, and how she would never be queen. this, at least, eydron seemed to understand. joffrey and lorayne had been sweet to them of late, and now they would never rule the kingdom side by side. she would never see her prince turn into the king he was meant to be.   
then the screaming started and sansa couldn’t think anymore. 

she had grown up to the sound of steel in the yard, and scarcely a day of her life had passed without hearing the clash of sword on sword, yet somehow knowing that the fighting was real made all the difference in the world. she heard it as she had never heard it before, and there were other sounds as well, grunts of pain, angry curses, shouts for help, and the moans of wounded and dying men. in the songs, the knights never screamed nor begged for mercy.

she wept, pleading through her door for them to tell her what was happening, calling for her father, for septa mordane, for the king, for her gallant prince. eydron flew out the window once to find out more, but all he had seen was blood and death, the daemons of the dying men vanishing. he came back in and they had huddled together crying all through the night. 

at sunset on the second day, a great bell began to ring. its voice was deep and sonorous, and the long slow clanging filled sansa with a sense of dread. the ringing went on and on, and after a while they heard other bells answering from the great sept of baelor on visenya’s hill. the sound rumbled across the city like thunder, warning of the storm to come.

“what is it?” eydron asked, cowering and moving closer against her. “why are they ringing the bells?”

“the king is dead.” sansa could not say how she knew it, yet she did. the slow, endless clanging filled their room, as mournful as a dirge. had some enemy stormed the castle and murdered king robert? was that the meaning of the fighting they had heard? was her father alive? or had he perished by his friend’s side?

the next morning, the morning of the third day, ser boros blount of the kingsguard came to escort them to the queen. 

the queen received her in the council chambers, and sansa was unnerved to see lord baelish there as well, with varys and grand maester pycell. they stared at her as she walked towards them, and her feeling of foreboding grew stronger. the lion at the queen’s feet was lashing its tail as he watched her, and she felt that she knew what it was now to be prey surveyed by the eyes of a stalking predator. 

all of them were clad in black, she realized with a feeling of dread. mourning clothes...

the queen wore a high-collared black silk gown, with a hundred dark red rubies sewn into her bodice, covering her from neck to bosom. they were cut in the shape of teardrops, as if the queen were weeping blood. cersei smiled to see her, and sansa thought it was the sweetest and saddest smile she had ever seen. “sansa, my sweet child,” she said, “i know you’ve been asking for me. i’m sorry that i could not send for you sooner. matters have been very unsettled, and i have not had a moment. i trust my people have been taking good care of you?”

“everyone has been very sweet and pleasant, your grace, thank you ever so much for asking,” sansa said politely. “only, well, no one will talk to us or tell us what’s happened.”

she patted the chair beside her. “sit down, sansa. i want to talk to you.”

sansa seated herself beside the queen. cersei smiled again, but that did not make her feel any less anxious. varys was wringing his soft hands together, grand maester pycelle kept his sleepy eyes on the papers in front of him, but she could feel littlefinger staring. something about the way the small man looked at her made sansa feel as though she had no clothes on. goose bumps pimpled her skin.

“sweet sansa,” queen cersei said, laying a soft hand on her wrist. “such a beautiful child. i do hope you know how much joffrey and i love you.”

“you do?” sansa said, breathless. her prince loved her. nothing else mattered.

the queen smiled. “i think of you almost as my own daughter. and i know the love you bear for joffrey.” she gave a weary shake of her head. “i am afraid we have some grave news about your lord father. you must be brave, child.”

her quiet words gave sansa a chill. “what is it?”

“your father is a traitor, dear,” lord varys said.

grand maester pycelle lifted his ancient head. “with my own ears, i heard lord eddard swear to our beloved king robert that he would protect the young princes as if they were his own sons. and yet the moment the king was dead, he called the small council together to steal the prince’s rightful throne.”

“no,” sansa blurted. “he wouldn’t do that. he wouldn’t!”

the queen picked up a letter. the paper was torn and stiff with dried blood, but the broken seal was her father’s, the direwolf stamped in pale wax. “we found this on the captain of your household guard, sansa. it is a letter to my late husband’s brother stannis, inviting him to take the crown.” she could not believe it, she would not.

she pleaded with them, desperately trying to convince them that her father was no traitor, that her love for her prince was pure and true and she would never betray him even if her father really had done what they said he had done. they argued back with sweet words and vague comments, and she feared that all her hopes would be dashed to pieces. eydron stayed close but she felt his agitation as keenly as she felt her own. he feared for their lives, for her father's life, and she could tell he did not trust any of the councilors. or the queen for that matter.

 

she felt the weight of cersei’s eyes as the queen studied her face. “i believe you mean it, child.” she turned to face the others. “my lords, it seems to me that if the rest of her kin were to remain loyal in this terrible time, that would go a long way toward laying our fears to rest.”

the queen took sansa’s hand in both of hers. “child, do you know your letters?”

sansa nodded nervously. she could read and write better than any of her brothers, although she was hopeless at sums.

“i am pleased to hear that. perhaps there is hope for you and joffrey still...”

“what do you want me to do?”

“you must write your lady mother, and your brother, the eldest... what is his name?”

“robb,” sansa said.

“the word of your lord father’s treason will no doubt reach them soon. better that it should come from you. you must tell them how lord eddard betrayed his king.”

sansa wanted joffrey desperately, but she did not think she had the courage to do as the queen was asking. “but he never... i don’t... your grace, i wouldn’t know what to say...”

the queen patted her hand. “we will tell you what to write, child. the important thing is that you urge lady catelyn and your brother to keep the king’s peace.”

“it will go hard for them if they don’t,” said grand maester pycelle. “by the love you bear them, you must urge them to walk the path of wisdom.”

still sansa hesitated. “perhaps... if i might see my father, talk to him about...”

“you disappoint me, sansa,” the queen said, with eyes gone hard as stones. “we’ve told you of your father’s crimes. if you are truly as loyal as you say, why should you want to see him?”

“i... i only meant sansa felt her eyes grow wet. “he’s not... please, he hasn’t been... hurt, or... or... “

“lord eddard has not been harmed,” the queen said. but... what’s to become of him?”

“that is a matter for the king to decide,” grand maester pycelle announced ponderously. those words gave her hope. surely her betrothed would give her father mercy if she asked it of him.

she dutifully wrote her letters, careful to stick to the queen’s words instead of her own. if she wrote it wrong they might say she had disobeyed them, and her father’s life depended on her obedience.

she was escorted back to her room, feeling dazed. she didn’t even have the energy to worry about her father, she simply pulled a chair close to the hearth, took down one of her favorite books, and lost herself in the stories of florian and jonquil, of lady shella and the rainbow knight, of valiant prince aemon and his doomed love for his brother’s queen. she read aloud and eydron fell asleep on her shoulder.

it was not until later that night, as she too was drifting off to sleep, that sansa realized she had forgotten to ask about her sister.

 

xii.

 

he sat upon the iron throne, looking like nothing so much as a little boy standing in his father’s boots. he had tried to give himself an air of effortless comfort, but sansa could see even from her place in the crowd where he had already scratched his hands and torn his sleeve upon the twisted blades that had been melted together to form the seat. the swan paced up and down before him, unable to find a safe perch. he had heard several cases already in the course of the morning, and his rulings in each one spoke of his increasing discomfort and irritation. he fidgeted a little until his mother shot him a stern look. the small council gave advice which he mostly ignored, but sometimes would listen to a small part of, and the crown was beginning to make his head bow forward. she knew he would leave soon, that the moment may be past ripe and that if his mood was black enough he would refuse her without even listening. she could do it now, or wait for the morrow and hope that he came to court again. she took her chance.

the petitioner left, disappointed but unharmed, which was more than could be said for many who had sought the king’s justice this morning. sansa stepped forward and knelt. 

“your grace...” her voice faltered. 

“the lady sansa, of house stark,” the herald cried.

she stopped under the throne, at the spot where ser barristan’s white cloak lay puddled on the floor beside his helm and breastplate. “do you have some business for king and council, sansa?” the queen asked from the council table.

“i do.” she knelt on the cloak, so as not to spoil her gown, and looked up at her prince on his fearsome black throne. “as it please your grace, i ask mercy for my father, lord eddard stark, who was the hand of the king.” she had practiced the words a hundred times.

the queen sighed. “sansa, you disappoint me. what did i tell you about traitor’s blood?”

sansa had eyes only for joffrey. he must listen to me, he must, she thought. the king shifted on his seat, “let her speak,” he commanded. “i want to hear what she says.”

“thank you, your grace.” sansa smiled, a shy secret smile, just for him. he was listening. she knew he would.

“treason is a noxious weed,” pycelle declared solemnly. “it must be torn up, root and stem and seed, lest new traitors sprout from every roadside.”

“do you deny your father’s crime?” lord baelish asked.

“no, my lords.” sansa knew better than that. “i know he must be punished. all i ask is mercy. i know my lord father must regret what he did. he was king robert’s friend and he loved him, you all know he loved him. he never wanted to be hand until the king asked him. they must have lied to him. lord renly or lord stannis or... or somebody, they must have lied, otherwise...”

king joffrey leaned forward, hands grasping the arms of the throne. broken sword points fanned out between his fingers. “he said i wasn’t the king. why did he say that?”

“his leg was broken,” sansa replied eagerly. “it hurt ever so much, maester pycelle was giving him milk of the poppy, and they say that milk of the poppy fills your head with clouds. otherwise he would never have said it.”

varys said, “a child’s-faith... such sweet innocence... and yet, they say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes.”  
“treason is treason,” pycelle replied at once.

joffrey rocked restlessly on the throne. “mother?”

cersei lannister considered sansa thoughtfully. “if lord eddard were to confess his crime,” she said at last, “we would know he had repented his folly.”

joffrey pushed himself to his feet. please, sansa thought, please, please, be the king i know you are, good and kind and noble, please. “do you have any more to say?” he asked her.

“only... that as you love me, you do me this kindness, my prince,” sansa said.

king joffrey looked her up and down. “your sweet words have moved me,” he said gallantly, nodding, as if to say all would be well. “i shall do as you ask . . . but first your father has to confess. he has to confess and say that I’m the king, or there will be no mercy for him.”

you are the king, what should it matter if he says it or not? sansa wondered. are you that unsure of your own power that you must make men cringe and grovel at your feet? some part of her had known this, had seen it on that day by the river, that he was not just and even tempered as a prince should be. she had thought little of it before, but now this insecure boy was king and he was still afraid that it was all a dream, that he would wake up from it unless he was told constantly that the dream was true. but even so, he was her only hope. he was her king, and she could do nothing but accept his decree without question. he would be good to her, he loved her. the queen had said so and she must trust in them, did trust in them. there was kindness in their hearts, she was sure of it. her father would live, he would do the honorable thing and admit that he had been mistaken, that he had acted wrongly, and he would live. “he will,” sansa said, heart soaring. “oh, i know he will.”

she kept her head down and spoke little in the days that followed, terrified to doing anything that might change joffrey’s mind. but underneath her terror there was a fierce hope that grew with every passing hour. by the day of his sentencing she felt hardly anything else. surely if they were going to change their minds they would have done so before now. she would not be walking up the steps of the great sept of baelor, she would not be wearing her best dress, and the queen and joffrey would not have smiled at her. they would have confined her to her room, they would have locked her away. but they had not, and even though eydron’s wings were twitching nervously, his heart fluttering, sansa felt almost calm. the fierce hope had become an even fiercer certainty, and she stood on the top steps beside the queen and waited for her father to be lead out. 

alarm threatened to overtake her when he emerged at last, held between two guards while breanna was lead by another, an iron collar about her neck. they both looked ragged and starved. her father’s face was set in hard lines, revealing nothing, but sansa could he how weary and weak he was from his time in the black cells. he wouldn’t go back there, though. he would never look like this again. she fought her fear and rage back down and tried to find her certainty again.

her father raised his voice and began again. “i am eddard stark, lord of winterfell and hand of the king,” he said more loudly, his voice carrying across the plaza, “and i come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men.”  
the crowd began to scream and shout. taunts and obscenities filled the air. sansa was holding back tears, but still she knew that this was the price of his freedom. these few moments of humiliation would mean years of life rather than death in the black cells.

her father raised his voice still higher, straining to be heard. “i betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, robert,” he shouted. “i swore to defend and protect his children, yet before his blood was cold, i plotted to depose and murder his son and seize the throne for myself. let the high septon and baelor the beloved and the seven bear witness to the truth of what i say: joffrey baratheon is the one true heir to the iron throne, and by the grace of all the gods, lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm.”

a stone came sailing out of the crowd, striking his head. the gold cloaks kept him from falling. blood ran down his face from a deep gash across his forehead. more stones followed. one struck the guard to father’s left. another went clanging off the breastplate of the knight in the black-and-gold armor. two of the kingsguard stepped in front of joffrey and the queen, protecting them with their shields.

but then it was done, he had confessed. the high septon turned to his king to ask what was to be done with the prisoner. 

and now comes the moment, she thought, now will come the words she had worked and prayed so hard to hear. and then he was speaking, her king told his people that his own mother had said lord eddard was to be allowed take the black, that sansa had begged him for mercy for her father. he turned to her then, his face earnest and sweet, and smiled his reassurance. lorayne came near and eydron flew down from sansa’s shoulder to stand by her, softly cooing in affection.

but joffrey turned back to the crowd then, and his voice rose so that no one would fail to hear him. “but they have the soft hearts of women. so long as i am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. ser ilyn, bring me his head!” and the headsman stepped forward holding ice in his hand, her father’s own blade. sansa felt a sharp pain in her side and turned to see that the swan had eydron pinned to the ground. she screamed in agony, in betrayal and mourning, but, more than anything, in rage, rising fast where the hope and certainty had once been. a rage stronger than any love or joy she had felt and something in her changed. her eyes stared without seeing. she heard the swish and thud of the greatsword and the roar of the crowd, heard a loud squawk and the beating of large wings, heard joffrey gasp in pain and alarm, and cersei curse. finally she turned to look and beside her eydron was snarling and lashing his tail, warding back any who would come near them. the kingsgaurd and city watch men hesitated to come close. even the great lion backed away from the raging direwolf. joffrey shouted an order and sansa felt something cold and hard strike the back of her head.   
then all was black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> summary: an aside from the sansa story, following arya.
> 
> warning: spoilers and references to later books in the series.
> 
> notes: characters as well as some sections of this text belong entirely to george r.r. martin.

they've know what they'd settled as since they were old enough to run, to sneak into the yard at night and snatch up swords jon and robb left laying around and practice fighting. they've known forever, even if they hadn't they been told half a hundred times by anyone and everyone who met them. arya and nymerium - the spitting, snarling image of lyanna and her conall. 'you've got the wolf in you' they'd say 'no question what he'll be'. her father's friends would say it in a tone of approval, her mother and her septa with shakes of their heads long-suffering sighs. it didn't matter. they were a wolf. they'd always be a wolf. wild and rebellious and not some stupid timid things meant to be kept inside sewing and singing and playing harps. but that didn't stop them from changing as much as they could. they raced down the steps and through the yard and into the quiet of the godswood where they splashed through the pools and watched the birds as they took to the air in frantic flight. being a wolf was most fun, it seemed to fit best, but when they played games nymerium would change into all kinds of things. he'd be a dragon and arya would pretend to fight him, or would ride on his back for a few feet...never too far. he couldn’t hold her up or be a big dragon like the targaryens had once. he’d change into a cat or a mouse and they would sneak up behind jon and catch him off guard, scare sansa as she whispered and giggled in the halls with her friends. they’d even been a shadowcat and pounced down to scare septa mordane once when she’d made her redo her stitching three times in a row and hadn’t let her go outside. if they wouldn’t believe her when she said she didn’t want to be a lady then she’d prove it to them. 

when jon gave her needle it was one of the happiest moments of her life. nym bounded around the room, ecstatic just like she was, howling with glee until alyarys nipped at him and told him to shut up. she swore to jon she’d keep it hidden, keep it close and learn to use it right. stick ‘em with the pointy end and be be quick, cunning, strong. she’d kept her promise too, no one had taken it away from her. she’d been blinded rather than give up that part of herself, rather than forget who she was and forget the brother that loved her. jon understood her more than anyone, more than her father who wanted her to be a little lady even though he should know better. she wished so much that jon could come with them. mother didn’t like him, but mother was staying behind with bran, so why couldn’t jon come too? he looked like a stark, he had a white direwolf for a daemon just like the sigil of their house. bastard born or no, he was more stark than sansa and she got to go to court. jon seemed proud to be going off with uncle benjen, and father seemed relieved - that strange drawn look of apprehension leaving his face for the first time since the king and queen had gotten to winterfell. 

arya and nym spent the rest of that day in their room, play fighting with needle, practicing stances and moves they’d seen rodrick teaching the boys in the yard until arya’s arm hurt and all her energy was gone. they lay in bed talking about how they could run off to the wall, dress up as a boy and go find jon. they could go ranging with him, fight wildlings and the monsters old nann told stories about. or maybe they could live in the north beyond the wall, fighting and hunting just like the wildling women benjen had told her about, they never had to learn how to curtsy and play the stupid harp. they could do whatever they wanted. she clutched needle to her as she fell asleep, and dreamed of the world beyond the wall. the next morning they left for king’s landing. 

she could never remember that journey without a mix of pain and pride. pain for the loss of mycha, who had been her friend, for sansa who had suffered in her place though she still couldn’t understand why. she was proud of what they’d done to joffrey, he was stupid and cruel and if she could do it again she would have run him through with that sword of his before throwing it in the river. she hadn’t dared say that in front of the king though, she’d told the truth about what happened and then sansa had lied to protect her stupid prince and then taken the punishment that would have been arya’s. every night after sansa was dragged back to their tent, tears and sweat streaking through the dust of the road on her face, delirious with pain and moaning for eydron, arya and nym had stayed close by her. they’d brought water from the river and torn up some bit of cloth septa mordane had tried to make them practice sewing on, dabbing at sansa’s forehead and trying to sooth her. nym had gone as close to the wheelhouse as he dared and flown up as a hawk to the cage where eydron was kept, whispering kind words and reassurance to him through the night. she was sure neither of them remembered any of it, but it was better that way. she didn’t want sansa to know they’d been afraid for her.

when they finally got to king’s landing her truce with sansa was over. she and nym found secluded places in the castle to practice their fighting, watched the king’s guard and the city watchmen training, but it wasn’t good enough. they’d never be proper fighters just from spying on knights. they missed home, and the godswood where they could climb trees and play outside, the fresh air rather than the stink and filth of the city. nym stayed a direwolf all the time now, to remind them of home and jon and to set them apart from everyone at court who wanted her to be pretty and tame. but when father found out about needle, when he found syrio forrel to teach her the waterdance, that was when she really started to love the city. she loved the secret tunnels below the red keep, the crowded streets where she could disappear into a crowd or down an alleyway. nym started to change again, a lean and wild-looking cat like the ones they chased through the streets, trying to catch them like syrio told them to, the same form he took in braavos when they were “cat of the canals”, talking trade talk on the docks and swearing at the sailors. 

king’s landing had taught her how to play a part other than her own, to take shapes she and nym never thought they would have to take. she had learned how dangerous it was to be herself, to be arya stark of winterfell, when the lannisters had arrested father, when the guards had come to try to take her, when she’d fled to the stables and killed that boy...  
she still felt guilty over that. the one person she’d killed when she didn’t want to or have to, that one stupid boy who thought he’d won some great prize finding her. she’d stabbed him and his daemon had flickered and faded before their eyes and nymerium had been so disgusted, so afraid.   
when they hid in flea bottom he’d been a rat, not just so he could be small and they could blend in with the daemons of the other kids who lived on the streets, always taking forms that were sneaky and easy to hide, but because that was what the stableboy’s daemon had been. he wanted her to keep the guilt of it with her, to see him and think of what she’d done. he’d stayed that way until the morning that her father was brought out onto the steps of the great sept of baelor.

when she had climbed up onto the statue to get a better view he turned into a great bright bird, flying high as he could and shrieking to get father’s attention until breanna had looked up and seen him. sansa and the others hadn’t noticed; she’d been furious at her at first, standing up there beside joffrey and the queen and looking almost proud when father was confessing to some crime he couldn’t have committed. arya felt like he was looking right at her the whole time he spoke, even when joffrey called for his head, and sansa had screamed and ilyn payne had stepped forward with ice in his hands - still her father’s eyes were locked with hers. nym had shrieked, taking off from his perch and changing to his wolf form mid-flight, landing amid the roaring crowd and trying to rush to the steps. arya had started to run too, her hand moving to draw out needle before a hand had covered her eyes and strong arms had pulled her back, her fear making her daemon turn and rush back to her. 

yoren had dragged her off before she could see the sword fall, his daemon, a shaggy grey-black bear, had calmed nym, making sure he that they weren’t in danger. he had recognized her even though arya hadn’t remembered yoren. by the time the crowd began to roar they had ducked down a side street, disappearing before anyone could think to chase after them. that was the last time she was really arya. 

on the march nymerium could be anything he wanted - but not a direwolf, yoren said. she musn’t let anyone guess who she was. and they couldn’t know she was a girl either. “you’ll be ‘nymeria’ now - she’s your namesake anyways.”

“but they’ll figure it out. they almost have already. and that big one, he knows something i can tell. and they all know i’m not a girl.”

“some boys have boy daemons,” she said defensively, “and they only think something’s strange because you turned into a giant grey wolf and almost tore someone’s throat out!”

“those stupid boys were going to hurt us!”

“no they weren’t and you know it. they never could. not when we have needle. you could tell - they were all talk. look with your eyes. like syrio said. you scared them all half to death. just be a cat. we’re in disguise. arry and nymeria. alright?”

“fine.” 

he was sullen and silent the rest of the day, but at least that meant they wouldn’t get caught. he wouldn’t admit it, but they both took comfort from the cat form. syrio’s lessons were all they had left, and when she practiced the water dance and said her prayer of names or remembered his words she would find her strength.   
his cat daemon had been beautiful - coppery and spotted with dark fur that seemed to form more patterns the longer you looked at them. she wouldn’t have stared, only when they were dancing their daemons would dance too, and arya couldn’t help but watch nym circling about, trying to match the graceful and powerful movements of his opponent. when the fights grew difficult he would try to overpower her with size, but she would always evade his claws and teeth. even as a dire wolf he had never beaten her. 

“you are not winning by being big and scary, child,” syrio told her after one such lesson. “the looking fierce will not impress for long. you must use another way. do you know the difference between the claws of a cat and the claws of a wolf?”

arya thought for a minute. “a cat can hide them?”

“just so. but a wolf cannot. it is the same as the greatsword and the blade of a water dancer. there is the looking of a thing and the being of a thing. both blades are sharp, both can kill, but one big and slow. you cannot be slow in the water dance.”

“but he’ll settle as a wolf - not a cat.”

“there is no telling. there is only seeing, and now while he can change he can change into anything.”

“so for now i can hide my claws?”

“just so.”

she thought now about how many times she had needed to hide her claws. more than she had been able to show them. nym had grown accustomed to changing often, no longer feeling that the forms he had to take so they could play their part were wrong somehow. 

at harrenhall they had to be a mouse - arya keeping quiet with her head down, nym tucked into a pocket, or a weasel draping himself along her shoulders. until jaqen h’ghar made her the ghost - able to kill with a whisper, because then they could be sly and subtle. they could be a snake or an ermine or a raven. once nym had even imitated jaqen’s vixen by becoming a fox himself. 

they had meant to show their real form when they went to free the northmen, but something had stopped them. doubt, or the queer lifeless eyes of roose bolton and the piercing stare of the enormous vulture perched on his shoulder. but the strangest part about that night had been when jaqen had changed before her eyes, and his daemon had changed with him, morphing into a large shaggy dog with yellow eyes and a lolling tongue. and then he had given her the coin and taught her the words.

“valar morghulis” she said to herself under her breath. 

even though she knew the meaning now, or maybe because she knew, she still used the words like a prayer. they were a promise to herself, all men must die, and she knew that she could be the agent of death, that she could take the lives of those people whose names she said to herself every night. the kindly man had told her that the gift could only be given to those who were named by another. she was a servant, nothing more, it was not her place to choose who lived and who died. but she said the names and she thought of all the people who had come to harm by their hands. she thought of her father, of sansa, and lommy, and all the ones she didn’t know. they had spoken the names, she decided, them and the people that loved them. the names she said to herself at night had been said a thousand times, she was just an echo. she was the hand of the many faced god and the servant of those who invoked him, she was death itself.


End file.
